


When He's Gone

by greenpen



Category: Homeland
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-16
Updated: 2015-01-16
Packaged: 2018-03-07 18:28:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3178628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greenpen/pseuds/greenpen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It feels like something she’s been through before, though not in this way. But a permutation nonetheless. It’s bitingly familiar. Pick up these pieces, take them elsewhere and start rebuilding again.</p><p>She doesn’t allow herself to feel sorry or pity or sad.  </p><p>And then he comes back. And it’s all shattered. And she can’t breathe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	When He's Gone

When he’s gone, she refocuses herself. 

When he’s gone, she stops buying microwave dinners and starts making salads. She doesn’t have much of an appetite, but she forces herself to eat. She buys a townhouse in Georgetown. It’s very nice and she feels comfortable there—there’s exposed brick and a good view of the neighborhood. She can imagine her and Franny being happy there for a few more years. She has a lot of free time. She’s on “sabbatical,” that’s how Lockhart phrased it, waiting for the Senate hearings to start, waiting for her next assignment, staying as far away from Langley as she can. She goes to yoga everyday and is surprised how much this centers her, gives her something to look forward to between diaper changes, baths, and meals. 

When he’s gone, she doesn’t prepare for him to come back but she doesn’t prepare for his permanent absence. It’s a limbo state, where she lives, something in between. She doesn’t let the pendulum swing too far in either direction. She maintains her equilibrium, something resembling peace of mind fueled by _just not thinking about it too hard_. 

It feels like something she’s been through before, though not in this way. But a permutation nonetheless. It’s bitingly familiar. Pick up these pieces, take them elsewhere and start rebuilding again.

She doesn’t allow herself to feel sorry or pity or sad. Maybe it’s all the yoga. 

And then he comes back. And it’s all shattered. And she can’t breathe. 

. . . . 

Her car isn’t at her sister’s and the first thing he does is actually panic. So much for being back. 

He rings the doorbell, fidgets, sways at the door. His hands are stuffed in his pockets when she answers the door. 

“Peter,” she says, holding the door open. 

“Hi. Is Carrie here?” 

“Uh… no. She… she got her own place a few weeks ago.” 

“Oh. Can you give me the address?” 

“I—are you ok?” 

“Yes.” 

Maggie is looking at him like he’s about to keel over and die—which he hates—and he really just wants this fucking address already. 

“I’m sorry. This was a bad idea,” he says quickly, turning. 

“3321 N Street,” she says behind him, and he freezes. “It’s the one with blue shutters. Can’t miss it.” 

He keeps walking, back to his car, turns on the heat when he gets inside. He can still feel her watching him.

. . . .

Every time she hears the door knock, a little part of her gives in to the hope—the irrational hope—that it’s him. She imagines him standing there with flowers, like something out of a cheesy movie. 

“I came here first,” he’ll say, his voice timid and shy. “I missed you so much. I thought of you everyday. I wrote you fifty letters but couldn’t send any of them.” He’ll take her into his arms and kiss her like he’s fantasized about for weeks or months or years. 

But then it’s just the neighbor, or a Girl Scout, or the takeout she forgot she ordered. 

On this night, she hears the door knock and doesn’t picture it though. That same part of her that used to draw up the entire scene has atrophied. It’s a loss, a little like she’s losing her grip on him. She’s angry instead. It’s late and she just put Franny to bed, which is proving much harder now that she’s older. 

She walks to the door and doesn’t even think to look to see who it is, she’s so worked up, about to give this asshole a piece of her mind. So much for moving onto a quiet street. 

Except she opens the door and he’s standing there, across the threshold, like some ghost from another life. He’s thin and he’s tan. There’s a small cut on his forehead. He’s cut his hair again. He’s wearing a black windbreaker over a hooded sweatshirt. His eyes look bloodshot, though she’s not sure why. 

“Hi” is what he says. 

She’s completely still. Her vocal chords seem to seize up. She can’t push any sound out. 

“Hi,” she echoes, like a question. Is she dreaming this? Is he really there? If she touched him, would he touch her back? 

They stand there, her on one side of the door, him on the other, looking at each other. He feels like another person to her, not exactly real, not exactly hers. A stranger, she thinks. 

. . . . 

His heart is pounding out of his chest. She looks the same. Exactly the same. Perfect. He feels ashamed for his appearance. He knows he looks disheveled, probably miserable, terrible to look at. 

It’s like she’s been preserved in a photograph, everything he’d remembered right in place. The symmetry of her face, her golden hair framing it.  She even smells the same, warm and citrusy. It nearly knocks him over. 

He wants so much to tell her he’s sorry, just how sorry, that he’s a fool, and please take me back. He wants to kiss her, to feel her lips again. He wants to hear her voice but she’s only said “hi” and he needs more than that. 

Something comes over him—maybe he’s not as strong as he thought he was, or maybe he just wants to be closer. He bends down and hugs her. The sheer force of him causes her to stumble and he moves a hand to her back to steady her. He can feel her give in a little, contract around her. He’s on bent knees now, his cheek to her stomach. 

He thinks he can almost hear her heart beating. 

. . . . 

The first thing she thinks when he practically lunges for her, wrapping his hands around her waist, down her hips, tugging at her limp arm, is what he’s seen and who he’s killed. Because it must have been horrible, it must have been grisly and scarring, for him to be like this. He’s holding on so tightly to her, grasping at her, and she thinks she knows why.

She wants him to stand. She wants him to say something. She wants him to explain himself. She wants to ask him so many questions, because she needs so many answers. 

But then he just starts whispering, his words incoherent and the sounds clouded. He kisses her waist, slipping his fingers a little up her shirt and she pushes his hands away. He kisses her arm, pulling himself up, toward her shoulder. She can’t move, she’s paralyzed. He kisses at her collarbone, pulling at the back of her sweater to find her skin. He wants to taste her.

He kisses her cheek and and she turns her head. She can’t give him that, she thinks. She can’t give him that. Don’t give him that. _Don’t._  

He finds her lips, her hair. He runs his fingers down the back of her neck and she can’t help but arch into him. She loses her breath, because he _feels_ exactly the same, the warmth radiating around her even as the cold air from outside passes through. 

She lets herself relax a little, lets him touch her and feel her skin. She hates herself for it, but she lets him. 

She reaches up to him, running her fingers over his jaw. She wishes she could pull away, that he wasn’t running a hand up her shirt, that she wasn’t allowing it. 

“Wait,” she says, surprising even herself. She’s practically gasping now and he’s breathing into her ear, hot and frantic. 

“I can’t,” he says. She steps back and walks around him, closing the door. 

“Are you hurt?” she says, facing away still. 

“No.” 

She turns to look at him and he’s closer than she anticipated, waiting a few inches away from her. 

“Let’s not talk about it,” he says, taking his face in her hands and kissing the corner of her eye. “Let’s not talk about it,” he whispers again. 

She begins breathing harder as the realization of it all hits her—that he’s here, standing before her, that he came here, he’s kissing her, touching her, holding her. She wants so badly to be held. 

She closes her eyes and feels his hands on her, the light touch of his fingertips. 

“Bedroom,” she says into his ear, hardly able to form the thought, let alone the words.

She swallows and leads him up the stairs. He grabs the end of her fingers. “Try to be quiet,” she says softly. “Franny’s sleeping.” 

He looks around at the walls, all bare, doing his best to step lightly. She squeezes his fingers as they enter her bedroom, also rather stark. He notes the photographs on the wall, pictures taken in Israel, Iraq, Turkey.

She closes the door softly behind him and he walks over to the foot of her bed and sits on the edge. He notes his reflection in the mirror across from him, his face in sharp relief, thin and gaunt. 

She walks back over to him, stands between his open legs. “You’re really back,” she says, still almost like a question, as she tries her best to stop her voice from shaking. 

“Yes, I’m back.” He lets his hands rest on her waist. 

“Good,” she says, and he runs his hand down the arm of her cardigan. She takes it off and lets it fall to the floor. 

He begins stroking her back, running his palms up the blades of her shoulders. She stares down at him and then they begin undressing each other. She starts at his windbreaker, then unzips his sweatshirt, while he removes her jeans. It’s methodical, measured. He knows she wants to go slowly but it’s getting more and more difficult to resist. 

He’s never seen her this naked before, standing there in front of him in bra and panties. It takes him a moment to realize he can stare. He observes the creamy whiteness of her skin, the shape of her breasts. She’s perfect, he thinks. She has a scar on her abdomen but he’s not sure from what. 

She removes his shirt then and sees the bruises, scattered around his ribs. She opens her mouth as if to speak but closes it suddenly. She exhales slowly and looks at him, though he’s averting her gaze. Perhaps he’s embarrassed. She kisses him then, an offer of comfort. She doesn’t want to touch him now, feels she may break him. 

She breaths into his mouth—she’s so out of breath, and he’s not sure why—and he reaches behind her back to unhook her bra. He brushes his hand up her arm and slowly eases the straps down her shoulders. 

She drops her arms to her waist and lets it fall to the floor, then she slowly lowers her panties. She’s never felt this exposed before, so bare, standing here in front of him, rather on display. She can feel him watching, observing, taking in every detail. She’s not sure how to feel. 

She takes a tentative step forward and stands between his legs. He reaches his hands up to her stomach and smooths them over her skin, covering the scar. He can almost cover her entire width with just his two hands, strong and calloused. She swallows hard, her throat suddenly dry. 

She reaches down to the waistband of his briefs and pulls them down. He lifts his hips a little to help, kicking them to the floor. She stares down at him, naked now, too, and traces her fingertips over his collarbone, protruding outward, forming cavities at his shoulder. 

He pulls her closer now, his hands on either hip, and kisses her waist. It’s an echo of the scene earlier in the foyer. She rakes her fingers through his hair, feeling his scalp. She rubs the back of his neck as he continues his run on her skin. 

She can hear his breathing: steady, controlled. He runs his hand down her back and behind her thigh, stopping at her knee, and lifts gently. She allows him to, and he bends her leg, causing her to mount him at the end of the bed. He does the same with the other leg, and she eases herself down onto him. She lets out a breath she wasn’t aware she was holding. 

He slowly starts lifting her up and down, and she arches her body to bend away from him at the ends, just her stomach touching his. She grabs her ankle with one hand, extends the other to grip his shoulder. She’s afraid she might lose her balance. 

The feeling is aching. It’s all he feels. Aching in his bones to feel the release, to finish. She leans down to kiss him and his mouth feels tired and loose. She runs her thumb over his lips and they mold to her touch. 

He begins thrusting up into her and it makes her gasp. She moves both hands now to clutch his back, starts curving her hips to his, when he grabs the back of her thighs and spreads them further, and she falls deeper onto him. 

“Fuck,” she gasps, her voice thin and soft.

She can feel her orgasm building now, emanating outward from the base of her spine, clouding her vision and brain. She’s practically panting now, it feels like there’s not enough air in the room. She comes pressed against him, moaning into his ear, and that sets him off, too. 

She can feel him spill into her, his arm wrapped up around her back, twisting her hair on his fingers. Her cheek is to his now, staring at the headboard in front. She counts the rungs in the wood. 

He stares at them in the mirror, her bare back, legs bent over his, spread wide. He watches his hand move down her back. He thinks about his hand, the motion of it, the control of it. He thinks about its dexterity. 

“Fuck,” he says softly. 

She breaks away and looks at him. “What?” 

“We should have used a condom,” he says. 

After a long silence she says, “I’m on the pill.” 

“I’m sorry.” 

“It’s okay.” 

He seems different now, hazier, somewhat distant. She wants to kiss him, to close the space, but he does it instead, pressing his lips to the inside of her elbow. 

She suddenly becomes aware that she’s still mounting him, his legs hanging off the edge of the bed, and slides off.

She’s never felt this way after sex. Her limbs still feel weak, and she can still feel the heat between her legs. But she’s all of a sudden so self-conscious she actually reaches down and puts her panties back on. 

“What’s wrong?” he asks and it almost stings that he knows her so well. 

“Nothing,” she says, tucking her hair behind her ear. She pulls a shirt over her head. 

“That’s my shirt,” he says. She looks down and grabs the fabric, feeling its softness. It smells like him. 

“Shit. Sorry,” she says, crossing her arms as if to remove it. 

“It’s okay,” he says, reaching down to stifle her. “Don’t.” 

She swallows and turns away from him, hands on the dresser. She can see his reflection in the mirror, which sort of defeats the purpose. He’s still stark naked. “Sorry, I—” She pulls her head down. “I’m embarrassed. I don’t know why.” 

He pulls on his briefs and walks up behind her. She can feel her heart rate quicken. He places a hand tentatively on her shoulder. Maybe he’s embarrassed too, though he’d never admit to it. 

“I think I did that all wrong,” he says.

She looks up, into his eyes, staring back at her from the mirror. 

“What do you mean?” 

“I shouldn’t have come here tonight, not like that.” 

“I’m glad you came here.” 

“I don’t want to pressure you.” 

“You’re not.” 

She’s not sure how the argument seems to have dissipated on their tongues, dissolving into thin air. Because maybe she is angry he came here. Maybe he did do it all wrong. But the admission of it, the admission of a mistake, is too much to handle. It makes it feel poisonous. It pulls her too far to either side, arms and legs stretched wide. 

She enjoys feeling his hands on her. He brushes her hair around her neck, exposing her neck. She lowers her chin when he does, receding into her own warmth. 

“Can we sleep?” he says into her skin. 

“Okay,” she whispers back. 

They’re both still for a moment, neither wanting to move first. 

“I’m going to get a glass of water,” she says. “Do you want anything.” 

“No.” 

She turns around. He’s still positioned her against the dresser. He extends his hands and smooths them over her hair and kisses the top of her forehead.  

“It’s all over, Carrie,” he says, and he’s not sure why. She’s not sure either. Some kind of blind affirmation maybe. 

She smiles, lips closed, eyes wrinkling at the sides. 

“I know,” she says, hardly above a whisper. She knows if she says it any louder she’ll start to cry, and that’s the last thing she wants. 

She shifts away from him and out the bedroom, down the stairs. All the lights are still on. The tea kettle is half-filled in the sink. She begins switching the lights off, locks all the doors, something so familiar until she remembers he’s upstairs in her bed, beneath the sheets. 

She walks back upstairs quietly, opening Franny’s door a crack to check on her. All quiet. She feels like she’s walking through a dollhouse. 

When she comes back into the bedroom he’s on his side, toward the window, on top of the sheets. She wonders how he knew what side of the bed she sleeps on. She climbs under the covers and curves her body toward his. She reaches a hand out as if to wake him, then thinks better of it, rests it gently on his side. 

She falls asleep like that. 

. . . . 

She wakes the next morning early, as the sun is rising, and he’s stone still next to her, hasn’t moved all night. She wonders when was the last time he had a truly good night’s sleep. 

She thinks about last night—feels it, too, because her legs are sore. It still hasn’t sunk in, she thinks, that he’s back. He’s back and he’s safe and he’s not leaving again. This is what she tells herself, at least, because it makes the sacrifice seem worth it. 

She eases out of the bed slowly, careful not to wake him. She shuts the door to the bedroom quietly and leaves him in there for as long as he’ll stay. 

And when she does, everything is back to normal, and the equilibrium reinforces itself. Because there’s Franny, coffee to make, something to read, a text from Maggie. It all assembles itself again. But he’s up there, in her bedroom, sleeping, the other half of it. She doesn’t forget that. 

. . . . 

He wakes up with the distinct feeling of not knowing where the fuck he is. Stark walls—no, something on the walls. It all comes into focus soon enough. He feels the softness of cold bedding below him and then he smells her scent, and he remembers. 

He looks at the clock on the nightstand: 11:56. Sunlight streams through the blinds. He can’t remember the last time he slept this late. Maybe never. Slowly he pulls himself up and out of bed, passing the mirror, and then the night comes back to him like a hazy fever dream. Coming here, to her, pulling her to him, fucking her like that. 

He’s suddenly aware that he’s still mostly naked and begins gathering his clothes from the ground. They’re scattered around the floor—jeans, sweatshirt, windbreaker, socks. All except his t-shirt, folded neatly on top of the dresser. He can’t remember why. 

He splashes cold water on his face in the bathroom, notes the pill counter on the edge of the sink, resists the urge to peak. 

Minute by minute he starts to feel like himself again, though he notes he still looks like shit, his face a jumble of shadows—bags under his eyes, cheeks sunken in from the weight loss. 

When he emerges from the bedroom, everything is quiet. He walks as noiselessly as he can, but when he reaches the bottom stair he hears her say, “There you are.” 

He looks up and smiles, stuffs his hands in his pockets. He doesn’t know what to say. 

“I was starting to get worried. You were asleep for a while.” 

“Sorry.” 

“Don’t be.”

He walks into the living room, where she’s sitting. 

“So you slept alright?” she asks. 

“Yeah. Yes.” 

“Good,” she says quietly.  

More silence. This feels harder than it should, he thinks. 

“Do you want some coffee?” she says. 

“Sure.” 

She rises and walks past him, into the kitchen. He turns, following her with his eyes. 

“You like it black, right?” she calls. 

“Yeah,” he says. He wants to add “same as you” but all of a sudden he can’t remember how she takes hers. Did he ever know? Or did he forget? He can’t decide which is worse. Suddenly everything about her becomes wrapped up in this singular fact—how she likes her coffee—and he goes over it in his head, as fast as he can, all the different possibilities. 

_If milk, it would be skim. If sugar, it would be minimal, probably fake. But no, can’t be. What’s the probability she would ask how I take it if she had anything on hand for me not to take it black? No, has to be black. She likes it bitter._

“Here you go,” she says, carefully passing him the mug, before he can decide. 

“Thank you.”

She leans against the doorframe now. “So…” she starts, her voice trailing off, leading. 

“Good coffee,” he remarks. 

“The one thing I can actually make _well_ ,” she says. 

He wishes she didn’t do that so often—deflect. It bothers him more than it should, probably, her compulsion to make herself seem less than. But it does, it eats into him like acid and he just wants to shake her. 

“Right,” he says with a slow nod of the head. 

. . . . 

He’s not giving her anything. Just standing there, sipping coffee. It occurs to her she should probably feed him—he looks almost scarily thin—but she doesn’t want to push it. 

“Franny’s taking a nap,” she says, searching. 

“Okay. I’d like to see her later, if that’s alright with you.” 

“Yes, that’s alright.” 

She wonders why he asked in the first place. 

They stand like that, facing each other, her on one side of the doorframe, him on the other, while he sips his coffee pensively. 

Finally she can’t take it anymore. 

“So are you going to fill in the blanks or do I have to guess?” 

“What do you mean?” 

“Well before last night, the last time I spoke to you was right after my dad’s funeral.” 

“Oh.” 

“And then—”

“I don’t want to talk about it, not right now,” he starts, almost like a reflex, and she gives him a look. “But I’m sorry,” he adds, to appease her. 

“It was that bad?” she says. “I heard you were in Afghanistan.” It’s a test she doesn’t know why she’s giving. 

“Syria, actually.” He takes a sip and then walks into the kitchen, places the half-empty mug in the sink. 

“Just so you know,” she says, from behind him. “…it was a yes.” 

He freezes, shuts his eyes. His fingers are still gripping the mug handle. He can hear her walk up behind her. He looks down at her bare feet approaching his and for some reason he can’t catch his breath. 

She can tell he’s uncomfortable, terse and struggling—so many shades of the man he’s alluded to in hushed tones, the one who is scared and unable to control himself. She wants to offer him something. Some kindness that he can hold onto. 

She is careful not to crowd him but slowly she reaches a hand out to his side, runs it over his sweatshirt soothingly. She can feel his ribs.  

“I wish I had said it sooner,” she says, quiet and easy. 

He crosses his arm over his chest, to her hand, just grazing her fingertips. 

“So do I.” 

. . . . 

He has no home to speak of and no place to go so when she offers for him to just stay with her, he doesn’t object. He says thank you and bit by bit brings his few personal belongings into the household. 

Steadily he begins to regain the weight he lost. She is rather obsessive about it, even buys a scale so she can be sure. He tells her he will grow his hair back out. He senses she likes it longer anyway. 

In too many ways he’s like a skittish, abused dog she found on the street and decided to take home. What happened when he was gone is never talked about, never discussed. They never speak of Syria, or Missouri, or that phone call. 

In brief lapses he suspects she fucked men while he was gone, and tries not to blame her for it. It had been nearly four months, after all. 

They never talk, too, about the night he came back to her, how he fucked her then, and slept for twelve hours after. 

These months and a day just cease existing. They’re the bruise they both consciously decide to ignore. 

One thing he has to relearn to do is fuck. Or, rather, fuck like he used to. Something in his brain was rewired while he was gone, he thinks. Because, though she would never admit it, she doesn’t enjoy the first few times. He makes her come, she’ll always orgasm ( _or pretends to_ , he adds in his most paranoid moments), but he knows there is something missing. He knows there is something she wants that he is not giving her. 

Once, they are right in the middle of it—he’s on top, she’s sinking beneath him—when he gets so self-conscious he just flat out asks her. He thrusts into her, her eyes closed softly.

“Is that okay?” he asks, his hand by her head. 

“What?” She opens her eyes. 

“Are you okay?” he says. 

“Yes,” she says, a touch shy of exasperated. 

“I—”

“Oh just fuck me, Quinn!” 

It’s an outburst of anger and frustration he hasn’t seen from her since Islamabad. It surprises him. She’s been so careful with him since she got back, never raising her voice, always keeping her tone even and non-threatening. 

He stops moving for a second, letting his breaths steady. She looks up at him, his face a well of emotion she can’t read, her eyes scanning. He slides his knee back then and grabs her leg at the calf, hooking it under his arm, lifting it. 

Then he slams into her so hard, her entire body moves, and she actually yells. He does it again, only this time a moan escapes her throat, a keening sound that fills the air between them. He thinks of all the places he’s fucked her now: bedroom, kitchen, sofa. He hears her moans in his head, filling his ears, some echoing chorus of yearning. Then he imagines they’re manufactured. It’s crazy-making.  

She’s tilting her head back now, which is how he knows she’s about to come, when he pulls out of her. She opens her eyes then. He lowers her leg onto the bed and catches his breath again. 

They stay still like this for what feels like hours but is probably only seconds, both trying to process what is happening between them. Then she lifts her hand up to his face and brushes the hair from his eyes, and in that moment her face softens. And she’s not sad, or scared, or frustrated. She trails her fingers over his cheek, skimming his jaw, the way she did too many months ago, by his car, when he came back the first time. 

And he lets her. He doesn’t flinch, or look away. He watches her. The way her eyes flit side to side, letting his image in. The tangle in her hair. He thinks about what she wants, and how she is. He thinks about the two tiny moles above her lip and reaches his thumb out to touch them, sliding gently over her skin. He bends down to kiss her there. 

He eases back into her then, and her hand falls down his neck. She tightens around him and he works slowly, building her back up, as her arm falls to the sheet, wrinkling beneath her hand. He drops his own to cover it, linking their fingers together.

Slowly he moves in and out of her. She opens her mouth—as if to speak, or maybe to moan, to gasp—but no sound comes out. For a brief moment he wonders if he’s gone deaf, spontaneously or something, because he swears her tongue and lips are moving, too. Then he realizes she’s lifted her head off the pillow to reach him, and he lowers his head slightly. She pulls it to hers, grabbing his hair—now long enough to grab, though only slightly—and kisses him. It’s sloppy and short, and he thrusts into her in that moment as she digs her fingers into his scalp, their lips touching. 

Her breath is quivering now, and barely audible too, her intakes of air accompanied by a characteristic high-pitched, vibrating panting. She’s delicate beneath him as he continues to slowly thrust in and out of her, each breath, each quiver, any escape of sound timed perfectly with his own movement. 

Then suddenly she’s shaking below him, from her hips to her stomach. He drops onto both knees again and holds her there, at her waist. He’s not sure why. Maybe to calm her, induce stillness from the center out. Maybe to feel it himself. The orgasm courses through her body and she sucks her stomach in, as far as it will go, as if to contain the pleasure for as long as possible. He watches her, in awe, as she reenters reality, and he wonders if she realizes he’s still hard inside her. 

She opens her eyes and then wraps her arm around his back, pressing him into her, and he knows she does. He lowers his body, running his mouth over her neck, tasting her skin, as he starts pumping again, his hips moving like pistons all the while. He finds her breast, the corner of her eye, he kisses her everywhere. And she lies there beneath him, her arm hooked around him, feeling her second orgasm build. When he slides his thumb over her clit he finishes her, and it’s all she can do not to say “thank you” as her lips curve into a smile. 

When she stops moving he begins pumping her again, and it takes only a few more strokes until he feels it, finally, something intense and electric, as she tightens around him instinctively. His ears begin ringing and he loses coordination between his mind and his muscles. She starts to laugh at his goofy expression. 

He lies down next to her and she pulls herself to him, their bodies slick and warm against each other. She kisses his chin and his shoulder, his ear, finally his lips, brushing her fingers over them as she pulls away. He holds her tight against him, and she pulls the sheets over them both. 

. . . . 

After that it’s easier. The pretense is gone, and they settle into something more familiar, less necessary. She’s easier around him, and he feels less like a flight risk. When they have sex, it no longer feels like a show they’re putting on for their own enjoyment, some validation they need to perform. When he kisses her, he lingers. 

Two weeks later, the Senate hearings start, which are horrible. She has trouble sleeping, can’t eat, and then he’s the one on monitor all the time. She’s exhausted and drained, and more than a few nights he worries she’s drinking too much. He tells her “day by day”—that’s his new mantra, apparently. Neither seems to grasp the uncertainty in it, but it makes them feel better, to not have to worry about anything beyond tomorrow or this week, and to think that the other isn’t, either. 

One night, they’re getting ready for bed, as they always do, as has become routine. She pulls on her pajamas as he brushes his teeth. He’s standing over the sink when he notes her reflection out of the corner of his eye. She’s standing on the other side of the doorframe, her arms crossed. 

He spits his toothpaste out and rinses his mouth. “What’s the matter?” he asks. 

“Would you ever leave me, Quinn?” she says as he wipes his mouth on a towel. 

He walks over to her, holding the towel in his hands. “What are you talking about?” It’s this that concerns him. He tries to count in his head how many glasses of wine she’s had that night but he can’t remember. 

“Would you?” she says, more pleading now. 

“No,” he says softly, shaking his head, like it’s the most ridiculous thing he’s ever heard of. He stoops to kiss her cheek, some reassurance. 

“Would you ever leave me?” he asks then, half-serious. 

_I can’t_ , she wants to say, because it’s the truth. She lacks the ability.

Instead she just echoes him, whispers “No,” then starts brushing her teeth. He hangs up the towel beside her and wonders what’s sparked this. There are still so many things he doesn’t understand, or can’t. 

She follows him into bed a few minutes later, turning off the light, letting the moonlight stream in through the window, casting them both in a grey glow. 

“Did you lock the doors?” she says abruptly. 

“Yeah.”

He wraps his arm around her and she settles into the crook of his shoulder, letting his warmth envelop her. She feels him playing with her hair, brushing it behind her ear over and over again. 

As she falls asleep, she plays out the scene just before, when she asks him if he would ever leave her again.

Only this time, he hesitates, or he says _yes, I have to leave right now_. Then she watches him pack his ten or so personal effects and walk right out the door without so much as a goodbye, and he’s made her own excuse for her. 

She wonders if he could do that, if he has it in himself to do that. For some reason, she forgets the months and a day, all that practice finally adding up to something useful in this moment, on this night. 

She thinks about the people in her life, how they populate it, how they insert into specific places. 

She thinks about her child, and how she’s grown, and how she smiles. 

She thinks about a lot of people who have died and then tries not to think about that. 

She thinks about him, and the way he touches her. She thinks about him, and she feels an ache. She thinks about him, and she feels safe. 

She thinks about being alone, and she feels free. 


End file.
